Page 24 of The Tart’s Final Noel (Gravesyde Village Mysteries #3)

Twenty-one

Minerva

The next morning, Willa’s kitchen smelled as it should again. Minerva gratefully accepted the still-warm bread Brydie offered. “Bless you, Brydie.”

“For you have sinned?” she teased. She nodded at the front room.

“Since Mr. Cooper is sleeping upstairs, Damien has set up an office in the parlor to keep an eye on us both. Rafe ordered me to stay out of the inn until the strangers leave. Poor man is torn between his desire to be the best host in the best inn in all England or grilling his guests until they admit guilt. So I might as well bake.”

“If his guests came here lying about the orphans. . . We don’t even know he’s the real Elton.

” Minerva had pried the story out of her friend earlier.

“How does one prove a liar is a killer? We need the children to identify him—except we can’t let a killer know we have them.

” She slipped the bread into her basket and felt militant enough to lead armies—if she only knew the direction.

“You’ve met Mr. Dryden, so we must assume he legitimately works for Mr. Browning.

The letter he brought from the solicitor’s office says there may be irregularities with the estate trust. And that this Mr. Elton is one of those irregularities.

He was warning us.” Brydie took off her apron and reached for her cloak.

“I think I should talk to Elton. Women are better at devious questioning.”

Minerva wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Not yet. It’s much too early for anyone to be up and about. Put some more loaves in the oven, let me feed Paul, and then we should visit Mr. Jasper at the new hardware. He arrives early. After that, we can interrogate Rafe’s guests.”

“Jasper? Why?” Alarmed, Brydie stood with her cloak still in hand. “Arthur has been working with him! What has he done?”

“Arrived the morning we found Willa, and the nanny, who did, presumably, work for Mrs. Turner since the children called her nanny.” Although, now that Minerva thought about it, the neighbor hadn’t mentioned a nanny, just two servants.

“Jasper was there when Verity found the children. He may have been the one who spread the word.”

Or the Stratford curate or the nosy neighbor. . . But they hadn’t known about the inn. Minerva had been making lists and connecting dots. None of them connected. Yet. She needed more information.

Brydie still didn’t abandon her cloak. “Now I’m even more worried. Should I send Arthur up to the manor with Verity?”

Minerva hadn’t wanted to say anything that would alarm Brydie, but the more information they all had— “Verity and Mr. Birdwhistle have called for more locks on the schoolroom and attic doors. Paul is to run up after breakfast because Verity doesn’t trust anyone else to do it.

They had an intruder. Harmless, apparently, but he frightened her into realizing one of the manor guests could be the person claiming Beanblossom. ”

That was a far leap of imagination, but Minerva knew better than to ignore Verity, who had saved the inn with her fears not long ago.

She couldn’t tell if hotheaded Brydie was praying or cursing under her breath at the news. “Don’t do anything yet, please? It’s very early. Let me feed Paul, then he’ll go up to the manor. I’m sure they’re all fine.”

“I’m carrying a hatchet from now on,” Brydie warned, finally hanging up the cloak. “It’s Christmas. I want to work on Lynly’s quilt and make rag dolls for the orphans and learn to bake hot cross buns. I don’t want to interview killers.”

“Potential killers. Rafe and Damien are watching and questioning the more obvious suspects, although there seem to be an awful lot of them. You and I will simply poke around the edge, clear a few people from the list, so they might concentrate on the more likely.”

She left Brydie grumbling and looking for a way to store a knife under her bodice. Brydie wore breeches under her old-fashioned skirts.

Paul was in his study going over his accounts.

Minerva knew he was hoping to find a way to expand the chapel—or at least buy decent pews or even cushions for the benches.

He earned almost nothing as a curate since the village was too poor to tithe wheat or eggs, much less sheep.

Most of everything the manor contributed went to the rector, whose parish this was.

The pinch-penny occasionally sent a small sum as salary, enough for Paul to buy new shoes every few years, and linen to have made into shirts and neckcloths.

Minerva didn’t sew well enough to do more than hems and buttons.

She felt guilty about not being the helpmeet who could save him pennies, so she contributed most of her pin money toward household expenses, leaving Paul to save his carpentry income for the chapel repairs.

Her salary for keeping up the manor library almost paid enough to keep them both dressed suitably to go visiting—if she didn’t spend it on bread.

They were scraping by. The free parsonage and eating regularly with his mother at the manor helped—but this was Christmas. They needed extra.

She prepared eggs and toast and kissed Paul when the aromas drew him from his study. “Is the captain looking for the valet who frightened Verity?”

“I’ll ask when I’m up there. They’re taking every precaution. The children should be fine.” He held out a chair so she could sit.

“But what about Verity? She’ll go after bad men with a fiery torch. You’ve seen her in action. I’m trained to use weapons. She is not. Should I be there with her?” Daughter of a colonel, she’d grown up surrounded by soldiers. And even when her father had retired, she’d learned from a duke’s sons.

Paul considered this as he chewed but shook his head. “There are more than enough people up there, including trained soldiers. You need to be our warrior down here. Asking questions is what you do best.”

“Damien is doing that,” she said crossly.

“A man claiming to be the nanny’s brother, and calling himself Mr. Elton, showed up last night.

He could provide no proof of his claim. He could be the killer and no one is doing anything!

” She sounded hysterical even to herself.

That wasn’t like her. It was pure frustration at not being able to undertake the problem on her own.

“The captain and Rafe are the law,” Paul said mildly, digging into his eggs. “If he’s dangerous, you do not need to be making yourself known to him. Elton, you say? I wonder if I should add that to the poor woman’s grave.”

Minerva thought she might scream, but it wouldn’t do any good. Her husband was imperturbable. “You should probably try to have us and Brydie and Damien invited to dinner at the manor so we may meet their guests. We need to know what other strangers are around.”

She had spent far too much time hunting pieces of this puzzle. It needed to be finished now. Then she could apply her mind to the more joyous occasion of Christmas. They had only three days left to plan their celebrations!

“Perhaps an invitation for Rafe as well, if Fletch returns from Stratford in time.” Paul cleaned his plate and carried it to their sink. “With Verity away, I imagine he’s pawing the ground like an angry bull.”

He’d succeeded in distracting her. Minerva had to smile at the image. “You are most likely right. Put the poor man out of his misery. He works hard.”

Minerva had enjoyed more freedom than most, following the drum with her parents and managing her widowed father’s household. She appreciated that her new husband didn’t curtail her independence—too much.

At the same time, however, she was aware she was no longer an invisible librarian.

For Paul’s sake, she had responsibilities as a curate’s wife.

Unfortunately, those duties often involved activities of which she knew nothing, like sewing and the various projects the ladies of the church took on.

Embroidery wasn’t a skill she’d ever needed.

Arranging flowers. . . She was grateful for her sister-in-law.

Patience had been raised as a curate’s daughter and knew the tasks far better than Minerva ever cared to.

So when the deacon’s wife knocked at the parsonage door after Paul left for the manor, Minerva had to stop and listen.

“A Christmas Faire? When is that scheduled?” Minerva had already tied on her bonnet. She pulled on her redingote while she spoke.

“I explained it to Mr. Upton earlier. We hold the faire the day before Christmas Eve. We sell simple gifts,” the deacon’s wife explained. “Things the children can make themselves. The better off bring cakes or biscuits so everyone has a little something to look forward to.”

If Paul had mentioned this. . . she didn’t remember.

“But if they have the coin to bake a cake and others don’t have the coin to buy them, wouldn’t it be simpler to just donate the funds to a poor box?

” Minerva finished struggling into her coat and led Mrs. Jones out, locking the door behind her.

Curates probably shouldn’t lock the parsonage, but she didn’t appreciate surprises if someone chose to help themselves. She truly didn’t trust as she ought.

“That’s just it.” Mrs. Jones followed Minerva down the walk.

“No one likes asking for help. Those of us who have sufficient funds will donate our baked goods to the church to sell for pennies. Others will have a table of homemade gifts to sell so they’ll earn the coin to buy the goods.

And we’ll all come away with a few pretties to unwrap for Christmas or to give on Boxing Day.

Mr. Jones says we may raffle off one of our geese.

He thinks maybe a ticket for every penny spent but we’re still debating that. ”

“I am sure you and Deacon Jones have it all arranged, thank you. Perhaps the manor may be equally generous.” Minerva hoped it was all arranged because she had no notion of fairs.

Mrs. Jones hesitated. “We’ve always held it in the chapel before. We thought, maybe, now that the inn has opened again. . . ?”

Ah, there was her purpose. “Shall I ask Mr. Russell for use of his pub to hold the market? If we hold it during the morning, he should be agreeable. He has guests in the evening now.”

They’d reached the lane where they must part ways. She should have told Brydie to meet her here. The hardware was in the opposite direction of the bakery.

The inn was right next door to the parsonage. A carriage had pulled into the yard to pick up passengers. They seldom saw carriages in the village, so they both stopped to watch. Was the suspect escaping already?

Alarmed, Minerva decided she needn’t wait for Brydie. She could interrogate as a curate’s wife! She took Mrs. Jones’s arm. “A gentleman arrived last night claiming the poor woman in the accident was his sister. We should offer him our respects and condolences.”

Mrs. Jones was always agreeable to gain a bit of gossip. They found Mr. Dryden handing his valise to the driver but no sign of his companion.

“Good day to you, sir.” Minerva bobbed a slight curtsy, giving the clerk a chance to remember that they’d been introduced.

“Mrs. Upton, well met!” the young man cried. “Mr. Browning says to tell you that we have safely stored the Turner valuables until we’re completely clear on ownership. A few smaller pieces are missing, I fear.”

“That was almost to be expected. It is good to know the bulk is intact. We are still attempting to locate the orphans’ family.

” Recalling what Brydie had told her about the suspicious Mr. Elton, she added, “Should the silver belong to the children, it would go a long way toward supporting them, would it not?”

The twinkle in his eye indicated Dryden received her message. “Very astute, Mrs. Upton. We must be careful to avoid the sorts more interested in their wealth than welfare, if it becomes apparent the silver is theirs.”

“Is there any chance that Mr. Turner might have had a new will drawn up when he married? And that it may be with a solicitor in Bath or elsewhere?” Without knowing for certain when or where the marriage had taken place, Paul had written the bishop about parish records, but they’d heard nothing yet.

“Now that you’ve brought the children to our attention, Mr. Browning is making inquiries about marriage documents with the bishop for Somerset.

He should have the parish records for Bath.

If they married more locally. . . We’ll have to write Staffordshire and Worcestershire and maybe more.

We will find them, eventually, if the legalities were followed. ”

That was a tremendous amount of writing and waiting. Minerva tried not to be discouraged but it didn’t look as if they’d know much before Christmas. “Since you are solicitors for the estate, are you retrieving any post that comes for Beanblossom?”

Mr. Dryden wrinkled his brow. “I don’t believe we have thought of that. I will arrange to do so as soon as I return. Family would surely write, would they not?”

They parted on that happy possibility. Minerva led Mrs. Jones into the inn as the carriage rumbled off—without its other passenger. She heard Kate ordering the maids about upstairs in Verity’s place. No one minded the lobby. Which probably meant. . .

She found Rafe scowling irritably, clearing a breakfast table in the pub. He glanced up at their entrance. “Parsons might make a good footman someday, but he’s rotten as a night watchman. Elton broke into my cash box, stole Mr. Dryden’s purse, and vanished last night.”

Alarmed, Minerva considered what that might mean. “Escaping after you exposed him as a liar? Where could he go? The bridge to Birmingham is still closed. Did he steal a horse too?”

“Had to have taken shank’s mare. That sort don’t ride and nothing else is missing. He’ll have the coin to buy a ride though—if he crosses the river to the highway somehow.” Rafe glowered as if harboring murderous thoughts. “He could be in Birmingham by now.”

“Or he can hole up in an empty cottage and wait for a chance to kidnap the orphans,” Minerva said in dismay. She had learned to consider all options at her father’s knee. This one was frightening. She needed to warn Brydie.

Mrs. Jones gasped. “A thief roams the street? Is it possible he’s the murderer?”

Minerva hadn’t wanted to look past stealing the children.

But yes, killing them might possibly have been the ultimate intent.

And now that the church’s primary prattle box knew about the children, the entire shire would know before day’s end.